


You Choose

by itsaquinnquinnsituation



Series: X Years Later [18]
Category: Newcastle (2008)
Genre: Canon Gay Character, Canon Gay Relationship, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 05:30:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4047994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsaquinnquinnsituation/pseuds/itsaquinnquinnsituation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six and seven years later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Choose

**Author's Note:**

> None of the characters or the plot of the original movie belong to me. I am not making money off my work, which is written for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> This is my universe and exactly how I see it. Writing should be enjoyed, not judged.
> 
> You might need a bit of patience and reading in-between the lines with this one :)
> 
> I highly recommend everyone to watch this movie.

***

 

In the dimly lit kitchen, his blue-grey eyes, usually so light as to the point of being transparent, joyful and vibrant with the sun and the reflection of the ocean waves playing in them like carefree children, appeared dark, almost black. 

He searched Fergus’s face, his gaze going from his eyes (one, the other), to his lips, to examine his brows – he was looking for an answer to his question so desperately that you could almost touch his exasperation, you could almost grab it and squeeze it or cut it with a knife. 

And Fergus just stood there, looking at him.

“Why?” – Andy implored again, taking another step closer, as if he could get any closer, without actually crawling into Fergus’ skin or climbing into his head, perhaps, so he could rummage through it and put his mind at ease, and in the way the edges of his brows were so adamantly trying to connect over his nose, scrunching it up a bit and putting a crease into his forehead, there, in every little sharp line and curved corner, in every beautiful feature of his face, his plea was uncanny, like a flashing light:

“Why? I… I… don’t get it…. Why did you do this?.. Why?”

 

***

But to understand this situation, you’d have to go a few months back in time. And Fergus could still remember standing there, in a bright spacious conference room, decked out in horrible cliché’d, typically office-appropriate paintings, and watching in horror as the son of his boss was shaking hands with a representative of a new client. His world was already beginning to spin. And when all the representatives finally exited, but before the disastrous concoction of all their Diors, Calvin Kleins and other posh colognes even started to dissipate, he lunged onto his supervisor’s son like a tiger:

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Relax!” – Miniature and slender, almost stick-figured Erick waived his hands neurotically, stepping back.

“Are you crazy? How could you even think of telling them we’ve got experience in this thing? They are practically asking us to put on a live show! The closest we’ve ever gotten to something like that is taking video interviews about toothpaste, and those weren’t even professional interviews, those were interviews done by me, hastily and with my brother’s camera, and I did over fifty just to be able to select two or three!”

He stopped to catch his breath and Erick looked curiously at him with a faint idiotic smile on his face, as though he were a child watching a circus show:

“So?”

“So?” – Fergus yelped, almost jumping up and down, - “So we have NO experience with this thing, none, nada, zero, nil! How the hell will we be able to stage the whole thing? We need to hire actors, find a scenery, find props, I mean… what they are asking us for is more like a… like a theatre show!”

“I gathered…”

“Yes, and we are an advertisement firm! We do web design, banners, logos, billboards, posters… we don’t do theatre shows!!”

“Well…” – Erick bit the end of a long, immaculate Ticonderoga pencil with his yellowed out teeth and Fergus winced, - “Nothing says we should not expand our profile. After all, that’s what my father wants.”

“I’m pretty sure your father would have thought twice before lying to the client about something that would be so easy for them to figure out!”

“It doesn’t matter how much experience we have so long we can get the job done! My father wanted this project!”

“Yes, but he didn’t know what it would entail! You didn’t know, I didn’t know! I mean, are you…? We were preparing for a completely different thing!” – Fergus actually swayed forward on the tip-toes of his feet, - “And that’s fine, but when it turned out to be something so out of our field, why did you have to tell them that we’ve done this hundreds of times?! They expect a turn-around time of two weeks, and I bet, you don’t even know where to find half of the stuff we’ll be needing!”

“I don’t need to know that” – Erick spat the Ticonderoga pencil out brusquely, - “That’s what we have employees like you for!”

“Yes! But, Erick, even with the lot of us, this is impossible! And perhaps… perhaps if we told them honestly that we have little experience with this, they would have given us the project just as well … that’s….i-in fact, I am pretty sure, they would have, but they would have given us more time and…. possibly even, some suggestions, some… some.. guidance….”

“Guidance? And what do we pay you, creative heads, for?” – Erick crossed his arms.

Fergus deflated:

“Look Erick. The bottom line is – you lied. You lied about our experience with this type of live…. shows… advertisements… whatever you want to call them… events. And as a result, we could… we could royally screw this up!”

“Look Fergus” – Erick mimicked Fergus’ posture with an in-your-face mockery that looked even more disgusting than it was probably meant to be, on his emaciated frame, - “You can run after them and tell them. You can tell them I… let’s say… “inflated” our company’s resume. But I can guarantee you, my Dad won’t be happy. Or…” – He stuck out his bottom lip, pulling the corners of his mouth down in an exaggeratedly pensive expression, - “Or… you can slide your love of honesty aside and get to work. And…” – He took a step closer, bringing an acrid smell of stale coffee with him, - “And if you cover my arse on this one, you can be sure my Dad will not pass you over…” – He regarded him languidly, his washed out hazel eyes half-lidded and pissy, - “I know how much you’ve been bitching about working overtime… no, don’t, don’t” – He stopped him with his hand immediately as Fergus opened his mouth, - “Don’t ask me who, the word gets around. Anyway, I couldn’t care less about that shit….” – His eyes trailed over Fergus’ body and Fergus momentarily began feeling sick, - “But look, mate, let’s do this, and what do you say my Dad gives ya a paid week-long vacation? Eh? I mean, on top of your annual and all that? Come on. Ten days, eh? I’ll talk to him later” – Erick winked and proceeded to nonchalantly collect loose papers off a big conference table with Fergus watching him, as if charmed.

A few moments passed.

“But…” – Fergus wheezed out finally, reaching out with his hand as if to stop him.

“No buts” – Erick turned to him suddenly, all traces of faux camaraderie gone from his eyes, which were now blazing with something akin to hate, - “You cover my back with my Dad on this one, and I’ll be sure to also scratch yours. You try to put sticks in my wheels, and…” – He once again gave him an arrogant, almost indecent, once-over, - “And let me just remind you, you are, technically, working for me...”

“I’m working in an office that you supervise, but I work for your father…”

“Ehh-uhhm” – Erick pressed his lips, his stale-coffee-coloured eyes intent and heavy, and threw out two last sentences before leaving the conference room, - “Well, all I am saying, is that you have a choice, Fergus, alright? You choose.”

 

So Fergus did. What happened next does not really warrant a mention, except, perhaps, one night, when Fergus showed up at his flat at three-thirty a.m., unbuttoning his shirt already at the front door, dropping his briefcase somewhere there as well, then leaving a trail of trousers, socks and shoes all the way into the bedroom, where he slid under the covers as silently as he could, so as not to disturb sleeping Andy and not to alert him to the time. But as if the three years during which they have been by then living together had not taught him anything, he still squeezed his eyes shut in protest as Andy immediately turned to him, mumbled something, then reached for the clock.

“Don’t” – Fergus whispered, but it was not necessary, because Andy did not say anything anyway, just reached out to him, momentarily pausing his intent, alert gaze on Fergus’ eyes, and then, pulling him closer, burrowed his face in his hair, and finally, laid Fergus’ head to rest on his shoulder.

An hour later, when Fergus had to get up to go back to the office, he felt tears stinging at his already burning, bloodshot eyes, as he watched Andy stir lightly, his frame looking uncharacteristically out of place alone on their bed, and, as he left him there, hastily throwing on a fresh suit, leaving no trace of having been home at all, save for the dirty clothes on the floor for Andy to deal with, he felt a sharp pinch at his heart and thought that nothing was free. Not office bagels and coffee, not a vacation, not anything, nothing. And when the whole thing was over, an overwhelming success that it was, what with Erick himself showing his yellow teeth in an excuse of a grin, patting him on the back with only just enough strength that his emaciated, coked-out stature could master, that was nevertheless sufficient to nearly send Fergus tumbling down in front of everyone, right there in the city square, from which the big man himself, the bastard’s father, gave Fergus a ride back to his flat. The flat was dark and quiet in the drowsy sun and he sat down, to watch it set, at a tiny desk that for lack of better place, Andy had put right in front of the telly – which nobody was there watch anyway, anymore, and fell asleep within seconds, just like that, sitting straight up. He woke up later that evening – or rather – he briefly slipped out of sleep because Andy came home and pulled him out of that chair, half-carried him to the bed, undressed him, and, when Fergus attempted to explain himself, words coming out in nonsensical syllables, Andy simply nodded and blinked, slowly. And Fergus was sure – or, he could now swear he remembered it, he saw sharply throbbing sadness etched into Andy’s eyes. And though he saw it then, he could do nothing about it, because, already, he was falling back asleep. And the ten days of promised free vacation was starting to seem more and more insignificant with every day of each passing week, that Fergus could not get the vision of Andy’s eyes out of his head – of seeing that searing pain and not being able to fix it. Not then, not now anymore, and really, not ever. That night had passed and became part of history, but part of history nonetheless, an indelible part, a part never mentioned but never forgotten. And that’s how Fergus was certain that everything had its price. 

 

***

In the dimness of the kitchen, streetlights from outside became reflected in Andy’s eyes and they glistened wildly as he whispered:

“So, you lied. You lied to me, eh, Fergs? You lied to me… why?”

 

***

 

He did lie, but it was not all because of that outrageous street show project that shattered his health a year ago. This particular thing came nearly a year after that show, no, hell, more than a year, actually, because by then, Fergus was already promoted and was no longer working under or even with Erick – by then, he was working with the big man himself. The office was nice and sleek and sported none of those corny paintings; computers were fast and coffee was good. The company benefitted immensely from Fergus’ project all the way back then, but as for benefitting its employees – that remained an unknown. But business was thriving, foreign clients abounded, and it was precisely in the middle of this blossoming season, that Paul Hancock showed up.

Paul was not actually from London – he made sure to tell you that in that coy – oh, don’t look at me – type of way, that nevertheless prompted you to ask him about his accent, which was probably more refined than that of Prince William himself. Paul, thankfully, looked nothing like Prince William, but to most observers, he appealed much, much more. 

He had an almost feminine face, if you did not take into account his neatly trimmed trendy facial hair, and his eyes were green, not calm, deep emerald green, the hues of which Andy’s and his mother’s eyes could take under certain lighting conditions, but a light, bright, almost teal green, green like lake water, or like a thin strand of sea kelp. He had a very straight nose, thin lips and straight brown hair styled almost exactly like Fergus’, that he nevertheless managed to wear with much more professionalism under some circumstances, and much more arrogant coolness in others. 

He talked a lot, in fact, he talked non-stop and with excitement, tending to stand up or bounce up on his feet when doing so, something that always succeeded in putting everyone around him under spell of wanting to be quiet and catch each word coming out of his mouth. He only shut up around people who actually interested him – and as Fergus later noticed – Paul always calmed down around him, fixating his seaweed eyes on his face, putting a slender finger absent-mindedly to his lips, as if to further prevent himself from speaking. 

Paul was staying in a hotel in a Sydney – just why he was lodging in Sydney and not in Newcastle was not entirely obvious – and he was one of two reps that the British firm sent to collaborate with Fergus’ company on a project. Fergus himself was not actually part of that particular endeavor, but he got invited to and then coerced by his boss to sit in on Paul and his co-rep Michael’s presentations, nonetheless. He went begrudgingly, having been interrupted from his regular work, but already by lunchtime, found himself enjoying the prospect. 

Besides, it was entirely fascinating to just be in Paul’s presence. Even Paul’s own co-rep was clearly magnetized by him. Paul was one of those people who didn’t just have an answer and a remark for everyone and everything, he always had the right remarks, apparently, due to his incredibly observant nature. In three days he charmed more people in their big office that Fergus had managed to win over in his first three months there. He went about giving compliments off-handedly, not in that obvious kiss-arsy way, but subtly, so subtly, that one was sure not to be let on that he was doing it, rather, it was just a peculiar feel-good sensation that always lingered after one finished speaking with Paul. 

By the beginning of Paul’s first weekend in Newcastle, he knew more about Fergus than all of the latter’s coworkers combined. Paul sought opportunities to talk with Fergus incessantly, first, hesitantly, then, in a very straight-forward way. They usually started by talking about work and ended with Paul making fun of England, of his firm, of his mishaps in Newcastle due his unfamiliarity with the place, and – on one of such late nights at the office – and in a rather strange way – of his own surname. 

So that was how Fergus knew. He felt it before, too, but on that night, he became sure. 

So that night (it was a Thursday) Fergus was definitely driving home on autopilot. 

That final more-than-obvious remark of Paul put everything in a different light – and Fergus’ mind was frantically going back in time, trying to remember the details, to put the “puzzle of Paul” together as complete as he could. Only he couldn’t. Paul was too experienced a man and a businessman to let his soul be pored over thus unhindered. That’s to say, he knew how to talk. He said just enough to make you want to ask him more, to just have him talking. It was much the same English spoken in both countries, yet Paul used all the words that one just barely kept in the back of the head and was thus repeatedly wowed by these chance encounters with them. He asked just the right questions, keeping his sea-green eyes on his conversation partners just long enough for them to want to tell him more, to tell him everything about their lives, to impress him, to make him ask them more questions, to keep him near the whole time. 

 

When Fergus came home that Thursday night, Andy was already in bed. He was reading a science magazine, per his usual, by the light of his bedside lamp. He yelled out a “hey” but didn’t get up, allowing Fergus to finish with his shower before he even properly greeted him. 

“What’s up?” – he bent a corner of the page in his magazine before putting it away – the habit that annoyed Fergus to no end though he himself would never read those, - “How was it?”

“Good” – Fergus threw out, giving him a quick kiss. He didn’t actually tell Andy anything about the British clients, first, because he did not think he would continue being involved in the project, then, when he did, because he did not have time, and now, finally… honestly, because of Paul. Though Paul didn’t actually do anything but shake his hand a couple of times and give him a couple of arm squeezes, Paul was Paul. And somehow, Fergus could not talk about him. 

“You have to go in early tomorrow?” – After a day of proper English accent, Andy’s lazy lack of good grammar cut his ear. Fergus winced:

“Yeah…”

Andy interpreted the wince in a different way:

“Alright, let’s turn the lights out then?” – He smiled, then added, - “I’m pretty beat myself. I just wanted to wait for ya, but I’m… really tired.”

It was only after they had turned the lights out that Fergus remembered to ask him:

“And you, how was your day?”

“’t was fine… surfin’…”

And that’s it. But that’s how it was, really. That’s what Andy did, all day. He probably also knocked about with Jesse, Nathan or Nick, drank a couple of beers or played a game at the arcade, but those were just things one just did – those did not need to be talked about. Fergus suddenly got a radical thought of asking him about the magazine he was reading, but just then, Andy turned onto his side and placed his head onto Fergus’ chest, his hair tickling Fergus’ chin, and sighed. That was usually how he fell asleep, so Fergus just let him be, laying for a few more minutes with his eyes open, smelling the ever-present salt air on Andy’s hair. And as he himself finally decided that it was time to sleep, he actually had to will his mind to put aside all the burning questions that he was already preparing to ask Paul the next day. 

 

 

The next day turned out different from what he’d imagined. Paul never showed up in Newcastle, instead, the whole morning was spent in a flurry of some ridiculous preparations that Fergus was actually not a part of, but after lunchtime, his boss informed him that he was to accompany the project crew to Sydney where the Englishmen were to host another presentation for them and a few other advertisement firms. Followed by a reception. All on the ballroom floor of the Brits’ hotel. 

In Sydney, Fergus was displeased to find Erick in charge of decking out the ballroom. By then, he hasn’t seen him in about six months, and was further appalled by how much the man had changed for the worse. He would have even started to feel sorry for the big man himself, if he didn’t know that Erick was just the ugly duckling of the family, the big man having three other, much more successful sons. Erick was scurrying around like a rabid rat, barking out orders and maintaining the general state of chaos. 

Just as Fergus was about to ask his boss what he should be helping out with, Paul materialized as if out of thin air, greeted him with a gentle handshake and a coy smile, and answered his yet-unspoken question:

“Yeah, we rented a projector, it’s in my hotel room… If you help me carry it, we can move the whole thing down here in just one trip.”

It wasn’t even a question, really, but this was Paul with his merman’s eyes and with his sublime insinuation of Fergus being the most trusted person for such a personal matter – after all, it involved going all the way into Paul’s room, which, by the way, looked just like Paul, very neat and pristine, aside from a suit jacket thrown on the made bed just carelessly enough to help support Paul on that delicate balance between classy and cool. Paul rather obviously paused to let Fergus take in the affect of the room before actually proceeding to grab the projector. 

Whilst they separated the top and the base between themselves to be able to carry them, Fergus found himself thinking that not only had he, by then, never been tasked with giving presentations to foreign companies, but he was also yet to be sent on a trip abroad. He realised that Paul had several years on him – and a different employer – but the fascination of what Paul had achieved by that date must have been apparent in his eyes as he looked up at him after grabbing the base of the projector, because Paul narrowed his eyes at him, but said nothing.

The rest of the evening came and went, with more talking, listening and presenting, but it was not until the very end of the evening, when many of the reception guests had at least a couple of drinks, that Paul materialized next to Fergus again. 

He had the top button of his shirt undone, and the tie loosened, just so, and his whole countenance was overflowing with the aura of carelessness of the recent success. They stood in a small crowd of people, engaged in a very politically-tinted conversation – something that Fergus had no interest in, and in fact, it finally bored him to such an extent, that he excused himself from the group to go and get a refill of his alcohol-free punch.

The punch table had been strategically placed by the far wall of the ballroom. And that was where Paul, again, found him, not two minutes later:

“You don’t want something stronger?”

“I drove Warren here. I might need to drive him back.”

“Nah” – Paul made a cutting motion and pressed his lips, - “They will taxi you. Bad comes to worse, he can rent out some rooms here…”

“I didn’t realise the reception would go on for so long…”

“Why, do you have to be somewhere tomorrow?” – Paul interrupted.

“ No, no… I guess not.”

“No weekend plans?”

“Plans?” – Fergus actually had to think about that one. Sometimes, had to work on weekends - well, most of the time, actually - but this one was definitely going to be an exception, but seeing how he did not actually have time to synchronise his schedule with Andy’s, he admitted simply:

“I guess not.”

Paul cocked his head and narrowed his eyes:

“Me neither.”

Suddenly, Fergus became acutely aware of the fact that Paul was wearing the same suiting jacket that was earlier lying on his bed in his hotel room. It looked just as cool on him, leisurely unbuttoned just so, as it did sprawled on the snow-white sheets. 

Paul must have read his mind, because he brought his hand to his neck, ostensibly to fix his tie, but did nothing but slide his hand down his chest, the edge of the jacket sliding in-between his fingers. He didn’t smell of posh cologne, but he didn’t smell of salt air either. He didn’t smell of anything other than a bit of expensive whiskey and a bit of expensive new clothes.

“What kind of food do you like?” – Paul asked suddenly, continuing to look at him in a lizardly manner.

Fergus took a step back:

“Food? I… I mean…” 

The thing was, about a year ago, he began fainting and was finally diagnosed with hypoglycemia. But he couldn’t really just tell Paul that his boyfriend had literally turned him into a human lab rat, keeping him on a strict diet, making all of his brown bag lunches himself, with elaborate calculations of nutrients. Fergus had pretty much forgotten what kind of foods he liked. He, for that matter, had already forgotten what Andy liked, because Andy had largely joined him in his struggle.

“Oh come on” – Paul interpreted his hesitation in a different way, - “You can’t not be hungry! I mean, they had pretty much nothing but drinks! If I knew, I would have already eaten supper, but as I haven’t and, I reckon, the night is still young…”

He took a step closer and Fergus stepped back, throwing a glance at the expanse of the conference room. Paul followed his gaze:

“Oh, they are leaving.”

“No, it’s… just that it’s getting late.”

“I’m pretty sure Warren is staying. He’ll get you a room. Or, you can stay in mine.”

“Excuse me?”

Fergus took another step back, finally backing into a wall. Paul laughed:

“Did you notice that I have two beds in my hotel room? But I guess, that doesn’t mean that…”

“And Michael?”

“Michael’s in a different room. So, how about some real food?”

“Look, it’s that I…”

Fergus was about to confess to him his need to be careful with what he eats, when Paul preceded him:

“So, restaurant? Or, we could get room service, instead? Huh? You choose.”

Fergus was still staring at him with wildly racing thoughts, his back against the wall, when Paul added:

“Oh, come on. I bet you haven’t had any nice food in ages. Not living with that surferboy of yours… I bet he does not take you out at all, not the classy restaurant type…”

Fergus blinked at him.

Paul winked:

“So, let’s go. Why not?”

 

***

 

“Why not?”

“No!” – That response was clearly not acceptable to Andy, because he continued staring at Fergus with those soul-searching eyes - in fact, Andy was staring at him with that tense expression for so long now, that Fergus, lost in his thoughts, had managed to forget what exactly his boyfriend was asking.

“Okay, why, what? Why I misled you, or why I did this?”

Andy answered this question with silence, Fergus only now realising just how frequently Andy was blinking because of the incessant flickering of the streetlights reflected in his eyes.

Fergus smiled:

“Okay, well, I had to tell you something! I had to keep you out of the house until I was ready with all this stuff! Andy, come on! If you showed up just as I was in the middle of it, it would have ruined it. Plus, didn’t you have a good time with Nathan?”

“Well, we just went for a surf, so…”

“Great, so it worked out.”

“But…”

It finally hit Fergus just what was bothering Andy so much. He exhaled a laughter and slapped him on the arm:

“No, relax already, will you? You haven’t forgotten anything, it’s not my birthday or any other special day…”

"...No?.. No?...."

"....No, no, I swear!.."

"...Really?...."

"....Well, not that I know of!..."

“…Like our anniversary….”

“…We don’t celebrate those…”

“…I know, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know when it is….”

“…When is it?”

“…Which one? The one when I met you, or when we…. Or no, you mean, the one when we…”

“…You’re scaring me…”

“…it’s…. half-a-joke….”

“…half?”

Andy clasped his hand over his face, pulling away just enough to look at Fergus and exhaled another laughter:

“Christ, I was standing here, wracking my brain as to what special day I had forgotten, and with all that…” – He pointed at the conglomeration of dishes and serving plates on the countertop, - “ I was hoping to God it’s not some crazy surprise party and some twenty people are about to pop out of the dark and start yelling and playing loud music and… I don’t know what…”

Fergus laughed again:

“Nope, just me…”

“Thank God…” – Andy smiled, - “So… care to explain, or will you torment me forever?”

“No, nothing” – Fergus finally disconnected from him and turned on the light, - “Oh, shoot, the candles dripped onto the table… that may have been too much… No, just… It has recently occurred to me…” – In a less than pleasant manner, he silently added, remembering the disgusting feeling of contempt mixed with anger that suddenly came over him on this same night exactly a week ago as he slid his body from between the wall and that of Paul Hancock, about *this* close to sodding him one, - “That because of … well, my work hours and my… hypoglycemia thing… you and I have really not had a nice dinner in ages, and so…. And I know, neither of us is really into all that, but once in awhile, I thought, it would be nice… anyway… I just thought…”

“Okay, but that’s way too much food!”

“I cleaned out the freezer!”

“Yes, but… but I still want to make sure that… that you can be eating this type of stuff and…”

“I can. Andy” – He looked at him, smile splitting his face, - “Look, you don’t really think I actually managed to pull the whole thing off on my own? I solicited a bit of advice from your mother. She’s a nurse. So we’re good. Plus. If something were to happen, you’re here.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am. But still. You didn’t have to. You know, with your thing… I… really don’t mind…”

“I know” – Fergus sighed, - “You’re easy like that.”

Andy dropped his gaze down to the floor:

“Too easy?”

“Maybe. But, it suits me. Because it’s enough to have one strung out neurotic workaholic in this relationship. And that’s why it works.”

“Yeah?”

Fergus kissed him then. Or maybe it was Andy who started it, but at some point Fergus turned him around and quietly exhaled his reply:

“It sure does,” – almost voicelessly into his ear, - “Surferboy.”

And just as Andy snickered lightly, hiding his embarrassed smile by bowing his head, Fergus disconnected from him and pointed at the counter top:

“And now, let’s start. I haven’t set the table in case you wanted… you know… some room service…”

Andy blinked, confused, at first, and then turned to him with an exaggeratedly dumbfounded expression:

“No?! You’re actually going to allow me to *eat in bed*?!”

“You make me sound like such an arsehole!”

“Well, you can be… sometimes…”

Ten minutes later, they were still standing by the countertop.

“Andy, for God’s sake” – Fergus whined out, finally managing to disattach their lips, - “If we don’t start eating now, it will go cold…”

“Right, alright” – Andy nodded and reluctantly pulled away, - “But where should I start, though? I mean, this is so much food!”

“Well” – Fergus smiled, - “You choose.”

 

***


End file.
